The Woman With the Scar
by JennMaryn
Summary: Henry can't sleep - he's had that dream of her, once again - the woman with the scar on her lip. 1/1


**This was inspired by a tumblr post written by strangesmallbard, in which Henry and Emma both dream of Regina, and Emma draws her. It was a beautiful idea and I wanted to do my own twist with it, but all credit for the inspiration goes to her.**

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It's gray around him; he's not shrouded in complete darkness — the night isn't completely engulfing — it's gray, instead, like smoke; billowy wisps of darker and lighter shades slithering around him as he sleeps.

He wakes, a bit uneasy, and sits up in bed, rendered unable to speak or move for many long moments, perhaps from the dream he has just been torn from or from the sleepiness still caught in his eyes at the very least.

He pushes himself out of bed, rubbing his eyes, and walks downstairs, his pajama pants a bit long for his frame, dragging against the floor as he does. He knows the apartment by heart now — he can navigate it perfectly in the night, and, as he listens, he can hear the patter of rain against the windows and the familiar sounds of traffic. He doesn't need a light; the large window does just fine. He lays himself down on the couch, silently, one cheek pressed against the armrest. He doesn't know if he can sleep just yet; he thinks.

He thinks about the woman in his dream.

These dreams are nothing new and especially not of her. A dream in a place not exactly defined by anything other than the feeling — the gray, blurred phantom edges forming a cradle for the subject: her. A woman, the woman — always the same one — stands in the middle of the smoke, smiling down; smiling at something he cannot see — something not meant to be in the dream. Perhaps it's a small animal; a child, maybe, with the way she looks … he can tell it is something she loves. She has a sad smile, the woman. It's full of love but it's full of sadness too, and he doesn't like how it feels when he looks at it. The smoke entrails her shape as if it is coming from her after all, her gray peacoat emerging from it subtly, fading into it just as easily being of the same shade. Her hair is short and shaped around her face; it does a little flip toward her shoulders, and her teeth are white and perfect but something about them looks predatory sometimes; especially in the dreams where she is _not_ smiling, but merely standing, staring straight ahead, her eyes pierced and determined-like, cradling a book in her left arm. In fact, she almost is predatory, in her way. She has a sharp scar running up from one side of her lip, stopping just before her nose. He knows it's the same woman because of that scar, every time; it's unmistakable.

But the most prominent thing of the dreams is not the woman, no — it is the feeling. The overwhelming feeling of sadness; a dull ache that starts in the pit of his stomach and ends up juxtaposing on both sides of his ribcage, almost stabbing, overwhelming. The dream, it seems, could be torn apart and dissected again and again until it is nothing but that feeling itself; as if the dream needs the feeling to be there, to live, and it weighs him down, even after he has woken up. It makes him tired but it makes him think. And when he thinks, he can't sleep.

"Henry?"

He sits up and looks behind the couch at his mother, Emma Swan. She has come down and turned on the stair light, making for a light amber fluorescence. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He says, and then turns away, laying back down against the couch armrest again. "Can't sleep."

Emma makes her way over and leans against the coffee table so as to face him. "You have that dream again? About the woman with the scar?"

Henry doesn't speak, but he does nod against the fabric, staring straight off, tiredly.

Emma gives a small smile and reaches over to pat him on the arm. "Come on. I'll make us some tea. You've got school tomorrow, kid."

He, reluctantly, because he's still feeling the weight of the vision, slides off of the couch and follows her to their kitchen counter, watching her noiselessly as she makes two cups of tea for them, cinnamon chai in each. She pours him a cup and, with a pressed grin, takes her own, settling down across from him. For a long time they sit in silence, sleepy but not sleepy, perhaps just unsure of what to say, and then he speaks.

"She's so sad."

Emma is mid sip, so she swallows with a bit of a dramatic head movement and then responds, catching her breath before doing so.

"Huh. Why do you think she's sad?"

"I don't know," he answers, truthfully, because the sadness seems deeper than that; not a shallow sadness, not one a simple reason can explain. "She just is."

Emma raises both brows. "Did you talk to her?"

"No. Sometimes I see her in different poses, though. She's doing different things. Sometimes she looks mad. I don't know; it depends. I can't really explain the feeling very well."

Emma smiles a little, humoring him, wondering if, perhaps, a little bit of talking is all he needs to go back to sleep. It usually is. She doesn't say anything, letting him continue.

"I just… I feel like, I feel like I KNOW her," he says, squinting, remembering, trying to make his point. "Like she's real — like we should help her. It just feels so REAL, mom. Like I should remember her somehow."

"So what's she look like again?"

"She's dark. I guess. But not dark skinned, just dark? And her hair is dark, and short. And she's got really intense eyes and really white teeth."

"She sounds kinda pretty. Sure you're not just envisioning the woman from those magazines you read?"

"No, mom; this woman isn't like that. She's always in gray, too. And she's got a—"

"Scar on her lip," Emma finishes along with him, and he nods, falling silent.

But it doesn't make sense, he thinks. Why the same dream? Why the same woman? Why the same FEELING every time? It's just one of those things, he supposes. But it feels so deep…

"It's only a weird dream, kid." Emma says, seemingly confirming his thoughts. "You're losing sleep over this."

Henry still doesn't speak, but he agrees. It _doesn't_ make sense. Recurring dreams have been known to happen. It isn't the most unheard of thing …

Still though, he will always remember that woman. She is as clear as day to him. He can almost touch her.

"Hm. Yeah," he says, finishing the last of his tea and then setting the cup down. "I'm done. Thanks, mom. I think I'll go back to sleep now." She nods and then gets up from her spot, walking over to guide him to bed with her own gentle hands upon his arms.

He lays back down in bed and soon is out just as that — tea always puts him to sleep, and talking about the woman, remembering the woman, being sure the woman's vision has not been in vain and will not fade away in the morning has relaxed him. Emma smiles, tucking him in and giving him a kiss on the forehead, turning around to exit the room when she is sure he is asleep. She turns off the light but before retiring to her own, stops and stands in the doorway for a moment.

She won't admit it to him, but she's just had the same dream, too. She's slightly puzzled by it. The dark-haired woman with the short hair, the coat, and the deep eyes. The woman with the scar on her lip. She's sure it's the same woman he's talked about.

She blames Henry and his wild imagination. He's been describing this woman to her for weeks. It was only natural she be able to envision her now, after all.

He does a better job than he gives himself credit for, though, she thinks. For only a truly gifted storyteller could resurrect the same kind of sadness she felt with the dream of that woman. A sad, sad feeling indeed.

She hopes the woman doesn't plague his dreams for the rest of the year. She doesn't want him to have to feel that every night, whatever it was.

And perhaps she doesn't want to feel it, either.


End file.
